


An Unfortunate Confinement

by Leamas



Category: Declare - Tim Powers
Genre: Gen, this is a crossover between declare (published rpf) and actual for real rpf, ww2-era shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-11
Updated: 2017-05-11
Packaged: 2018-10-30 18:10:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10882203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leamas/pseuds/Leamas
Summary: Philby spends a night in Elliott's office, and not by choice.





	An Unfortunate Confinement

Passively, Philby stood to the side of one Nicholas Elliott’s desk while Elliott sorted out the gentlemen who had been there before Philby walked in. Philby obliged, doing his part to at least pretend that he wasn’t listening to what was being said, or reading what he could see on Elliott’s desk. Everyone in the room worked in intelligence in one way or another, and would understand.

Nothing demonstrated the strangeness of wartime than the office he stood in. Elliott worked from a prison, out of one of the now empty cells. He’d done what he could to modify the room, bringing in a desk and light and such, but looking around Philby concluded there was only so much that _could_ be done. There were still bars over the windows. The stone walls made the room even colder; Philby imagined it feeling the chill even if it weren’t winter.

Finally, Elliott finished with the other man. He was someone Philby recognised but with whom he had not yet been formally acquainted. He took note of how warm Elliott acted towards him as he showed him out of his cell/office, before finally turning his attentions back to Philby.

“Terribly sorry to make you wait,” Elliott said. “You aren’t in a hurry, are you?”

“Not at all,” Philby said.

“It’s the end of the day – god knows that doesn’t mean anything, sometimes,” Elliott said. “You don’t have anywhere to be, though?”

“No, nothing like that.” He had a meeting with his handler later that night, but could hardly tell Elliott.

Elliott sat behind his desk and motioned for Philby to sit in one of the chairs across from him, which looked slightly less comfortable than the one Elliott used, although not by much.

“I thought I would j-just bring you this.” Philby opened his briefcase on his lap and began searching for the papers he was looking for. He took out the package and handed them to Elliott.

When Elliott read his face took on a somewhat distracted expression. Philby had met Elliott often enough before that he recognised this. As far as appearances with, he was somewhat on the wrong side of being quite ugly, therefore making him completely ordinary around here. They’d had some drinks together, and they’d gotten on well when they talked. So far Philby was undecided on Elliott. Elliott had attended Cambridge as well, although four years after he started. Elliott had friends – a lot of them, -- and he had connections. His demeanour, at least, was pleasant. Philby could imagine himself spending time with Elliott and enjoying it, and suspected many others did as well. Elliott worked as a liaison between agencies; Philby suspected he wouldn’t mind if he stopped by every so often.

Elliott finished reading and set the papers on his desk.

“I’ll have these passed along, hopefully before the New Year,” Elliott said.

“That’s in only th-three days,” Philby said. “Are you sure?”

“Oh, it won’t be a problem,” Elliott said. “In fact, I’ll have these passed along and have a response sent back to you. Will that do?”

“W-wonderfully.”

“Excellent,” Elliott said. He pulled a paper from somewhere in his desk and scribbled something down, which he then handed back across the table to Philby. “Take this. If there’s nothing else I can do for you, I only have a little bit more work to do before I will be off for the evening. So unless you would like to wait quietly for half an hour and then join me, I suppose it would be for the best if I allowed you to be on your way.”

Philby thought about his plans for the evening.

“Th-thank you f-for the offer,” Philby said. “Perhaps another night.”

“You can show yourself out?”

“I th-think I can m-m-m – I can _manage_ ,” Philby said; he noted the grin crossing Elliott’s face as he struggled to push that sentence out.

As it turned out, Philby could not manage. He tried pushing on the door to Elliott’s office, only to find it was stuck. Instinctively he reached for the door handle, but there wasn’t one.

“Problem there, old boy?”

“It appears we’re stuck.”

Silence for a moment, and then Elliott swore. Then he stood beside Philby, pushing at the door like Philby had only moments before and yielding the same result.

He stepped away from the door and looked at it as though it would change anything.

“We had better start praying that we aren’t the last ones here,” Elliott said. “If that’s the case, we’ll be trapped in here until morning. And God only knows that not everyone will be in, what with the New Year approaching.”

“That isn’t f-for three d-days yet,” Philby said.

“Then we should really hope someone comes ‘round and lets us out,” Elliott said. “I don’t fancy dying a slow death of dehydration. Thankfully I keep a few drinks in here, at least enough to keep us sorted for the night.”

Philby watched as he rounded his desk, then looked back to the door as though it would change anything. There were a handful of tricks Philby knew, some more unorthodox than others, that he supposed he could deploy in extreme circumstances – but what counted as an extreme circumstance? Would it count to know that his handler would be worried to death about him if he wasn’t able to make the meeting that night, and that he would probably assume the worst? Philby supposed not, especially with Elliott in the room; he was intelligent enough that Philby didn’t suppose he would be able to slip a few tricks past him as far as getting this door open went.

“What – what is wrong with this door?” Philby asked.

“This is a prison cell,” Elliott reminded him. “There’s a handle on the outside only, as I’m sure you noticed. He must have turned the handle before leaving, effectively locking us both in here.”

Which was like Philby supposed. Although it did comfort him minutely to know he had such options should the circumstances demand it, he knew they weren’t quite so severe as of yet.

“W-what are the odds that s-someone else w-w-will stop by?” Philby asked.

“Low,” Elliott said. “Regretfully. It looks like we’ll be keeping each other company, unless you fancy trying to escape from prison.”

  

Elliott worked for the first half-hour, as he said he would. When he finished, for lack of anything better to do, he moved on to the next task that he’d initially set aside for the next day. On hand he had a book that he loaned to Philby once he finished the work he could occupy himself in the briefcase, which was a relief. He could all too easily imagine himself obsessing over the time lost in this room, or counting down until the time he was meant to meet his handlers.

“Oh, god, Kim,” Elliott murmured after an hour passed.

Philby glanced over the top of the book, which he was now about a third of the way through, to see Elliott leaning over his desk. His glasses were off, and he held them in one hand. With the other he pinched the bridge of his nose and all but buried his knuckles in his eyes.

“What’s wrong, then?”

“What are we doing?”

“Passing the time, I assume,” Philby said. “Unless you d-do, in fact, want to try your hand at t-trying to escape.”

“A prison break,” Elliott murmured. “Well, I suppose it would be more fun than wasting the whole night working, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t know if I w-would call that, w-wasting,” Philby said. “B-but I see your point.”

“I mean, Kim,” Elliott said, speaking slowly as though talking to a child. He looked up, though, and Philby caught a glimpse of something in his eye that looked positively mischievous. “Why are we sitting here pretending to pass the time like two nuns when I have a drawer full of alcohol, and we both know that it’s only a matter of time, really, before we break it open?”

Philby paused. From the corner of his eye he could see a clock. In two hours, he should be meeting with his handler; in six, he would be expected at the fallback.

“W-well,” he said. “I s-s-suppose I can’t argue against that logic.” 

 

The pillow and blanket were brought in after the first time Elliott found himself locked in his office overnight, an unpleasant experience he hadn’t been eager to repeat but took delight in telling Philby about. He’d made himself at home on the floor now, with one of his pillows behind his back and a blanket under his ass. Philby could only be grateful that Elliott had thought ahead for this inevitability: the floors were cold and hard, and with only a jacket to put under his head Philby could imagine what sort of discomfort came with it. Given how uncomfortable the chairs were, Philby imagined it wouldn’t be long before he was joining him.

“Although I suppose you’re used to worst,” Elliott said, on their second glass of wine. Once they finished those, there would be only a little bit left – as he’d poured their drinks, Elliott proposed they play some game or other for the rights to finish the wine from the bottle, something like what would have been done in university.

“W-what do you m-mean, worse?” Philby inquired.

“I mean Spain,” Elliott said. “You didn’t really have a good time over there, did you?”

“Well,” he said, “it was a war.”

“Yes, exactly,” Elliott said. “Although we’re at war here, too, and you can’t tell me there isn’t at least something about the whole thing that’s a little exciting.”

It lasted so briefly that Philby assumed on instinct that he must have imagined it, but he thought behind Elliott’s glasses he had seen the skin around his eyes tighten, and that his protruding mouth momentarily grew firm before settling again around the edge of a cup. He took another sip of wine, and looked back to Philby.

“There isn’t m-much that’s more exciting than a _shell_ landing on your car.”

“For some definitions of exciting, I presume.”

“For the only d-definition that matters.”

Elliott nodded. “I see what you mean. How did you not die, again?”

“D-d-divine intervention,” Philby said. It was met with howling laughter from them both.

 

The last of the wine went to Philby. After another few drinks, and on an empty stomach, the little alcohol he was taken was easily going to his head. Under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have allowed himself to get into this state, but tonight he welcomed it. Sitting against the wall besides Elliott, the blanket folded under them to stop the floor from stealing but all of their heat, he realised that he had missed the arranged meeting time. What would they assume? And how the hell would he explain why he’d been occupied all night long?

“Is something wrong?” Elliott asked after a while. “You aren’t uncomfortable, I hope?”

“Not at all.”

“I should hope not,” Elliott said. “I like to maintain some standards of hospitality.” He pushed himself to his feet and crossed the room, sitting back on his desk. He was slightly unsteady, although not obscenely so – it was nothing he hadn’t already seen with Guy, for instance, or with the sorts of company Guy kept.

“There won’t be anyone looking for you, will there?” Elliott asked as he leaned forward for better access to his bottom drawer.

“Only my wife,” Philby said. “She n-knows better than to expect m-me home on time, anyway, though, even in the b-best of circumstances.”

“The best of circumstances,” Elliott mused. “Meaning, of course, that you aren’t in prison, drinking?”

“Exactly.”

“You had better make it worth it, then,” Elliott said. He reached into the drawer and pulled out another bottle, this one already half drunk.

“Why do you have so m-many?” Philby said. “Unless you were p-p-preparing for another night like t-tonight.”

“Like tonight,” Elliott agreed. “Or in case I was working late for purely innocuous reasons, and not because I’d been trapped here like some kind of prisoner.”

He glared at the door, squinting, as though the sheer power of his will might open it. Briefly, Philby entertained the possibility of calling in a few divine favours once Elliott had had more to drink and willing to simply accept events at face value and not question them. He could get the door open, and perhaps make it back to the fallback.

But already he’d dealt with that option and decided against it. Anyway, did he really want to invite such company? The answer, as always, was that no, it wasn’t what he wanted at all. Philby found that now, while he was slightly drunk, the certainty with which he thought that was even stronger than usual. Why would he want to invite trouble for himself? It didn’t even matter to him that he’d found himself in a prime opportunity to walk away with something useful. The simple fact of the matter was that he didn’t wish to involve himself in that way, and that he never would on his own volition. Especially around the end of the year, with his birthday only a few days from then.

There were some thoughts Philby really didn’t want to be having.

“Elliott,” Philby called up to him from where he sat against the wall. He waited until Elliott’s head appeared again before waving the cup around to indicate that it was empty, or that it would be going that way soon. “How about you fill this up for me, why don’t you?”

“Oh, how rude of me,” Elliott said. “I can’t believe I let your drink get so _low_.”

 

The actual process of laying the blanket out took far longer than Philby thought necessary, and by the end he was thoroughly frustrated with himself for not being able to manage such a simple task. He had never had a problem with it on his own, nor had he ever seen Litzi or Aileen struggle with something so simple. Yet when it came to him and Elliott, they were like a pair of three legged horses, constantly tangling the damn thing every which way. He couldn’t even blame how intoxicated he was; he had sorted out a fucking blanket while in a worst state.

Finally, it was spread on the floor. Elliott had only one pillow, but took the cushion from his chair and offered it to Philby. He lay down on the floor beside Elliott and together they stared at the room from this new perspective, each taking a moment to appreciate the strange view. They had only their jackets to keep them even a little bit warm, unless they wanted to risk sleeping directly on the floor. It wouldn’t be the coldest either of them had ever been. Briefly Philby wondered what Elliott had done the first time he’d been locked alone in his office like this, when it had been a new experience.

“We really do need to drink in a more conventional setting,” Elliott mused. “A club, for instance.”

“Yes,” Philby agreed.

Through the bars on the window Philby could see the night sky. There were no lights at this time of the night, and he could see the moon from between the bars.

“What an awful place to work.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t think it awful,” Elliott mused. “When I need a break, I’m thankfully near enough to a friend that I can just walk down to see him. He’s in another cell, for theft.”

“Do you have f-friends everywhere.”

Elliott laughed, and confirmed that he did.

Eventually Elliott fell asleep, as Philby expected him to. He waited for a time before rolling over on his side and then sitting up, checking that the movement hadn’t woken Elliott. But Elliott lay on the ground undisturbed, as though Philby hadn’t moved. He almost looked like a child – not innocent, per se, but what children were? He looked helpless. Vulnerable. So yes, exactly like a child, then.

 

Laying on his side he always felt like a piece of meat. Depending on the night he felt either freshly dead and gutted, like he ran the risk of turning rancid if left exposed to the air for too long, or he felt burnt, like the slightest touch might cause his skin to flake away, alongside what was left of him. If felt so melodramatic, but as Philby closed his eyes he found he couldn’t shake it. It followed him until finally he fell asleep.

It was abrupt, how he found himself suddenly being shaken awake, uncertain of where he was or how he got there, or even who he was and why this place mattered to him at all.

 

It took a lot longer than Philby would have liked to come back to himself, once again growing familiar with what it felt like to be in his body as though he were discovering it for the first time. He hadn’t had a nightmare so shocking since he was a child. Repeatedly, he looked around the room and was overcome with a dawning horror at how small it was. When Elliott turned the light on again, he couldn’t stop himself from perceiving every lighted patch of wall as darkness. The only thing he could stand to look at was the window, with its clear view to the stars outside, and Elliott. Nothing about Elliott seemed cold.

The first independent, sentient though Philby had was how mortified he was. He could like Elliott well enough but he barely even knew him; even Aileen, or Litzi, had never seen him so disjointed.

“Here’s a drink of whatever,” Elliott said. He looked quite a state, chilly without his jacket and squinting in the absence of his glasses.

Philby accepted the drink gratefully. He watched as Elliott lowered himself to the same seat Philby had sat in at the start of the night.

“Is that better?” Elliott asked as Philby took a sip.

“M-much,” Philby said. “Th-thank you.”

“It isn’t a problem,” Elliott said. “I suppose someone needs to finish off what I have in there.”

He wasn’t wrong. After a strong drink Philby finally asked, “I d-d-didn’t _wake you_ , d-did I?”

“You most certainly did,” Elliott said. He looked down to Philby. Again, Philby thought his eyes looked tired, or like a certain stoniness equipped him. Philby took the sudden softening of his features to mean something, if only proof that Elliott’s hardness had even been there at all.

“But what can be done?” Elliott asked when the silence carried on for too long. “Christ, I don’t think I’ve heard stranger since I was in boarding school.”

“I didn’t,” Philby started, but was forced to try again, “I didn’t _say_ anything, d-did I? In m-my s-sleep.”

Elliott frowned for a moment, as though considering what he was going to say. If he weren’t drunk, or recovering from being drunk, Philby had the worst suspicion that the expression never would have made it to his face.

“Well, you made some sounds,” Elliott said, as though confiding in Philby. “But if they meant anything, I don’t believe it was in English. What were you dreaming about, then?”

“N-nothing,” Philby lied. “If I did, I d-don’t r-r-remember.”

 

In the morning Philby woke to a headache, a pounding at the door, the sun letting itself in through the window and onto his face, and Nicholas Elliott curled up against him, an arm folded against his back. He had only a brief moment to realise how strange this was before another knock followed, this time accompanied by a voice calling, “Nick? Nick, are you in?”

Behind Philby, Elliott sat up. However terrible he was feeling, he adjusted quickly, like a man used to such uncomfortable mornings and got up, taking his jacket with him and pulling his arms through it.

“I’m here!” Elliott called. “Come in, if you don’t mind just opening the door for me.”

The door – thankfully – opened, just as Philby finished pulling his jacket on and began helping to bundle the blanket up in his arms. He folded the blanket small enough that Elliott could do whatever he did with it, pushing it out of the way in case of another emergency such as the one he’d been faced with the night before.

Then, having done what he could, Philby snatched up his briefcase and politely nodded goodbye to Elliott, with a quick nod at the man who had just freed them. He looked shocked to see them both in there. Then, Philby showed himself out, quickly darting for fresh air.

**Author's Note:**

> The details about Elliott's office (how he was working from a prison, and how it was possible for him to accidentally be locked in at night) are true. It's also true that someone he went to school with was in said prison while he worked there. WWII was, truly, a wild time.


End file.
